


Four Times Eggs Ruined Milo's Life and One Time He Saved It...

by lorannah



Category: The Baker (2007)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-15
Updated: 2010-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:45:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorannah/pseuds/lorannah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The meandering path to love never did run smoothly, but at least Eggs is here to help...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Eggs Ruined Milo's Life and One Time He Saved It...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [omphale23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/gifts).



> Massive thanks to Carfax for the truly awesome beta.

# 1.

 

It had, Milo admitted later, been going far too smoothly. Rhiannon had adapted remarkably well to the discovery that he’d been lying to her and had once been a hitman and had almost gotten her killed and was probably never going to make the perfect doughnut.

And even if life wasn’t exactly perfect, at least the kisses were outnumbering the slaps and right now he was happy with small victories. Small, normal victories.

It had been years since he’d been able to forget the job properly, without some ugly reminder popping up to haunt him. Putting all those things together it seemed almost inevitable that Bjorn would come bobbing back up to the surface; it was just that with a surface as small as Gwynfyd, it seemed particularly absurd and unfair.

But there he was, strolling past the shop window, doing something unspeakable to an ice lolly – like a tourist. He was even wearing a bloody t-shirt... well, not a bloody t-shirt. That would have been fine, he’d seen him covered in blood and even, occasionally, in t-shirts – but this one was ridiculous, it had a dragon on it. The dragon was winking.

Milo threw himself to the floor, rolling across the aisle with the sickening, slimy crack of the eggs he’d dropped beneath him. He tucked himself against the shelves, his hand already reaching for the gun that he no longer carried.

“I take it you’ll be paying for those,” Keeley said from her checkout, without even a raised eyebrow. He still hadn’t worked out if she hadn’t heard about the hitman thing or if her lack of reaction was a general reflection of the concern with which she approached the world.

“You alright boss?” Eggs asked, head tilting to one side as he peered down at him. Milo gave him a quick shake of his head, a hurried silent warning. Of course, Milo sighed as Eggs straightened up and stared out of the window, a verbal warning might have been better, either that or dragging him to the ground and half throttling him. That at least might have worked.

“Oh...” Eggs said slowly, recognition dawning, “He came into Cod Almighty yesterday. Brought Rhys some wine and new underwear...”

Milo was considering this new horror as Eggs waved cheerfully out of the window with a smile that shifted worryingly towards inspiration. It was like watching a puppy discovering snow for the first time – shortly before it barrelled into a snow bank and was never seen again.

“Whatever you’re thinking, just don’t,” Milo told him through gritted teeth and an impending sense of doom.

*****

“What’s wrong?” Milo gasped, skidding to a halt in The Daffodil. Egg’s message had sounded urgent – COME! DAFFDIL! NEED YOU!

The pub was dark, just one of the lamps lit, though given that Bryn and half the village were away being historical, that lamp was one too many. Bjorn was sat at a table, a drink in one hand, both smooth and cool. The t-shirt had been abandoned for his traditional charcoal jumper and Milo was suddenly, uncomfortably, aware that the weapon he was wielding was actually a wooden rolling pin, dough still clinging to it. Granted he could probably do a great deal of damage with it, but it hardly presented the menacing image he had been aiming for. He lowered it slowly.

“Where’s Eggs?”

“You’re here!” Eggs popped up from behind the bar with a grin, clutching two bottles.

“Eggs, what’s going on?” Milo edged closer to him, eyes still fixed on Bjorn.

“Bryn left me keys to the pub, so I can look after it while they’re gone,” Eggs told him, brushing past as he deposited the drinks on the table and moved towards the door. “And I thought that if we’re all going to be living in Gwynfyd, then you two should patch things up, put your differences behind you-”

“What?” Milo wasn’t sure which of Egg’s statements to query first.

“You know, like an intervention, a reconciliation, a negotiation...”

Milo turned back to look at Bjorn.

“What does he mean, ‘living in Gwynfyd’?”

Bjorn just stared at him, raising one eyebrow slowly.

“He’s moved in with Bob,” Eggs told him.

“He’s moved... Bob? Bob!”

“Careful Milo,” Bjorn spoke at last, “Anyone would think you were jealous.”

“Why have you moved in with Bob?”

“Oh, you know, Milo. I’ve just been looking for someone to share things with. A life without secrets. A new beginning...”

“But why Bob? Why Gwyn-” he broke off mid-sentence, realisation dawning coldly inside him. “You watched the video.”

“It was very enlightening.”

Milo froze for a second, undecided. “I don’t have to stay and listen to this.”

“Actually,” Eggs said, taking a seat beside Bjorn. “You do; I’ve locked the door and concealed the key somewhere about my person.”

Bjorn gave him a sudden appraising look. “So we’d have to strip you to find it?”

“I suppose so.”

“We’re not stripping him, Bjorn,” Milo snapped.

“Ah, you used to be so much more fun.” Bjorn actually grinned at him, one hand running across the back of his neck.

“Give me the key, Eggs.”

“No, not until you’ve resolved your differences.”

“We’re not going to resolve any differences – he tried to kill me.”

“Milo, you better than anyone should know not to take that personally. It was just business.”

Milo wasn’t sure what was worse, Egg’s look of eager, utterly-misjudged helpfulness or the fact that Bjorn was obviously enjoying this.

“It didn’t feel like business,” Milo told him through gritted teeth.

“Please Milo,” Eggs begged, “I mean, Bjorn’s forgiven me for hitting him over the head with a shovel, won’t you just stay for one drink? Please.”

“Oh for god’s sake, fine.”

*****

Milo couldn’t remember when one drink had turned into... several, or where they’d found the garish green liquid they were now drinking, or at what point his arms had started feeling like they were floating, but he did have a distinct suspicion that some of those things had been connected.

He and Bjorn watched as Eggs slowly toppled forwards, head hitting the table; he’d have been worried if it wasn’t for the fact that Eggs was already snoring. They both stared at him in silence for a moment.

“What’s,” Bjorn waved his hand vaguely in the unconscious boy’s direction, “he like?”

“I think,” Milo told him, “that he’s been blowing up sheep.”

It had been preying on his mind for a few weeks, ever since he’d gone into Egg’s caravan and found the fertiliser bombs and all those pictures of sheep with red crosses through them. Rhiannon would kill him if she found out, would probably kill both of them, in fact she’d have him go down for aiding and abetting or something.

“Interesting,” Bjorn murmured. “Gay?”

Somehow they’d ended up squashed together on one of the padded benches.

“Well... I did think he was going out with Bob once, but then he shot him. Thought he shot him. It was a bit of a mess.”

Of course there were other things preying on his mind right now. “You know you can’t stay here,  it’s not like we can turn Gwynfyd into a retirement village for disillusioned hitmen.”

Some of the words may have been slurred, but he felt at least the point had clarity.

“I’m not disillilil... disillusioned,” Bjorn told him. “I’m an existentialist. And why not? Why can’t we both stay here; it’ll be the safest place in Wales. And where else is going to accept a reformed man, like you? And me?”

Milo knew he should have been able to argue with that but his head was pounding. In the end he gave in and leaning back, took the least strenuous course of defence.

“But... Bob?”

“I’ve always liked a man with interesting scars.”

“It’s only a burn, for god’s sake.”

“That wasn’t the scar I was talking about. Speaking of which, how’s our baby?”

Bjorn’s fingers were reaching for his shirt in seconds, pushing the buttons loose and the material aside, and slipping inside. Milo batted him away ineffectually for a moment and then gave up, sinking back and submitting to the inspection. Bjorn ran a single finger along the deep scar in his stomach.

“Remember this one?” He asked.

“Of course.”

They’d been in Vegas – all dressing up and pretending to be millionaires and throwing money around and poker faces and acting as if they hadn’t known each other and laughing. And obviously the nearly dying part, but mostly it had been fun.

“I don’t think I was sober for a week afterwards,” Milo added.

“I bet you spent your winnings quicker.”

Milo laughed. “Of course.”

“Do you ever miss it, Milo?”

Milo peered down at him, Bjorn’s face hovering somewhere near his chest. “I’m not coming back, Bjorn.”

“That’s not what I asked. Do you miss it?”

“Hmmm....” The answer was obvious of course, he’d hated it all at the end but there had been times when it was glamorous and fun and exciting. “Sometimes... I miss the excitement.”

It was the sudden intake of breath heard even through the drunken stupor, that made both him and Bjorn looked up sharply. Rhiannon stood in the doorway, a look of horror on her face.

“Rhiannon.” Milo pushed Bjorn off him and struggled, somewhat wobbly, to his feet. “This is not... it’s...”

“Bryn gave me a spare key,” she told him, the emotion in her voice tight and pressed down, “I was getting worried.”

“It’s not what this looks like,” he told her.

“Really?”

“No, it’s... Eggs...”

She turned around, looking away from him and spoke over her shoulder. “I don’t want to talk about this now, not when you’re like this.”

In a second she was gone, leaving Milo uncertain whether to follow or not. The uncertainty lasted just a little too long and Milo knew that the magical moment when it would have been dramatic and romantic to chase after her had passed.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, turning back to the table. He sighed, he probably ought to get Eggs home, particularly given the way that Bjorn was looking at him.

 

# 2.

 

“What are you doing?” Rhiannon asked, jerking Milo back into consciousness.

He’d been murmuring some nonsense to the door, trying to ignore the pounding headache that Bryn’s medical infusion had left him with. He’d been there for the best part of two hours, sat on the doorstep, face pressed against the wood, saying anything he thought might convince Rhiannon that last night had been all Egg’s fault. He’d presumed she was sat on the other side, listening.

And now here she was, standing in front of him, coat on and bag in her hand.

“I... you’re... you’re not inside.”

“No,” she told him, no trace of a smile on her face. “I had an early call out. Sheep.”

“Did another one explode?”

“No, but Gruff was worried about the others. I’d say Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, if they weren’t sheep.”

“Look, about last night, I know how it must have looked but-”

“Like you were about to fall into bed with the man who tried to kill us both?” Rhiannon interrupted him.

“What? No, that’s-”

“Like you were bemoaning our boring little life on the hard shoulder?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just me and Bjorn go back a long way...”

They used to call them Leo’s Lads; he’d found both of them, brought them in – convinced the company that neither of them were actually sociopaths, despite all the evidence to the contrary. All things considered it was probably a good thing he’d got out of the company before Leo had taken over.

 “... I think maybe he wants to change too and Eggs had locked us in. And you know what it’s like when you’re drunk, you just fall back into bad habits-”

“And what other bad habits are you going to fall back into?” She asked.

“Look Milo, I don’t care if you want to be buddies with him, I don’t care if you go out and get drunk and sing songs about all the people you’ve killed together and then go and paint all the sheep red – actually I do care about that, don’t do it. But what I really care about is that if you’re already bored here now, what it’s going to be like in six months, a year, three years?”

Milo didn’t know what to say for a moment. “Look, I know how it sounded, but even though I wanted to leave that life, there’s bound to be some bits of it that I miss. You have to understand that. I mean there must be something about your old life that you miss.”

She stared at him for a second.

“No, I don’t. I came here and knew I was going to stay here, that I wanted to stay here. If you don’t feel like that, then.... I don’t think we should see each other for a while.”

“What... for how long?”

“Until I know that you’re as committed to this life as I am. Please just go.”

She pushed past him, fumbled with the keys a moment and then, pushing the door open, slipped inside and closed it again on a soft sob.

*****

Milo paced. At least, he paced as much as it was possible to in the Bakery, which didn’t offer the luxury of much room. Particularly given that Eggs, bright eyed and practically bushy tailed, seemed to be in the middle of making a million loaves.

“Thought I’d open up,” he’d said cheerfully once Milo had got back from Rhiannon’s.

That was the thing he hated most about young people, the way they could drink until you had to drag them home and then they were fine in the morning. As you got older, hangovers moved in like persistent squatters; it didn’t help that he’d not managed to sleep that night. He flopped into a chair, groaned loudly and let his head sink onto the slightly sticky table. He’d just thought the words ‘young people’ – that could only be a bad sign.

“What’s wrong?” Eggs asked.

The words hangover lingered on his lips for a second as he looked slowly back up at him. “I don’t think we’re going to need this much bread, Eggs.”

“Oh,” Eggs said, dismayed.

“I think Gwynfyd may be unique, in that technically we now have more loaves than people living here.”

“Right... Maybe I should do some rolls?”

“Maybe.”

Maybe, he thought, he could convince Rhiannon to do bread and butter pudding for The Daffodil. The thought had come unbidden, bringing with it the dull throb of a headache. How the hell were you supposed to convince someone of what you were going to do in the future? He, more than anyone, knew you could never tell what tomorrow would bring. Or who.

“Rhiannon still upset?” Eggs asked, reading his mind.

“Yes. She doesn’t think I’m going to stay in Gwynfyd.”

“You are, aren’t you?” The fear was almost palpable.

“Of course I am.”

“It’s just that you almost went before and now that Rhiannon’s dumped you, I thought you might not want to stay.”

“Dumped... I’m staying. I mean, I’ve bought the bakery, changed my name by deed poll, I’m learning Welsh and I know every person in the villages’ name and half their histories. I know the names of all their extended families – the children and grandchildren and useless son-in-laws and the never-ending aunts. In London, I didn’t even know the names of my neighbours most the time, and I lived there for-”

Eggs interrupted the rant, “I didn’t know you were learning Welsh.”

“No, I didn’t want anyone to know – not until I was good, better.” There was something vaguely embarrassing about the admission.

He’d already been trying to learn it for weeks, though mostly because Mrs. Edwards and Mrs. Thomas were always coming in the bakery and chattering away. He had the constant odd feeling that they were talking about him – which probably meant he was paranoid, though at least he had a better excuse than most.

 “Does Rhiannon know?”

“No.”

“Well maybe you should tell her, that would convince her.”

“I don’t know.”

“No. Think about it – you underneath her window, moonlight, a romantic speech...”

“I think romantic speeches might be beyond me at the moment.”

Eggs brushed his hand roughly down his apron – it was a motion that reminded Milo vaguely of mothers, though oddly not his own.

“Well,” he said. “Show me what you’ve learnt.”

“Errr...” Milo resisted the urge to stand up and instead concentrated on wrapping his mind around the Welsh syllables, sometimes it felt like he was trying to tie his tongue into knots. “Croeso. Milo dwi. Dw i'n dod o Llundain. Mae'n dda gen i gwrdd â chi. Mae fy hofrenfad yn llawn llyswennod.”

As he was speaking Eggs’ face fell and by the time Milo had stuttered to a close, he was biting his lip.

“I might have got that last bit wrong,” Milo suggested.

“I didn’t understand any of that,” Eggs said. “You’re not very good.”

Milo groaned, head sinking back onto the table.

“But I can help you.”

*****

Milo still wasn’t sure this was a good idea, the fact that it was Eggs’ spoke for itself, but right now it was the only one he had. With a brief nod at Eggs, he balled up his fist and flung the pebble at Rhiannon’s window. It hit it with a sickening crunch, disappearing inside – leaving only a jagged hole in its wake.

“Damn.”

In seconds Rhiannon had appeared, wild-haired and crazy-eyed, yanking the window open. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Rhiannon-”

“Milo, for God’s sake.”

“Please, just-” Milo stopped himself and started again. “Rhiannon...”

He paused, waiting for Eggs’ prompt. They’d tried everything else – he’d tried to learn the words, memorising them, reading them from cards, but nothing had worked. They’d worked out that he could just about copy what Eggs was saying, one sentence at a time. And then they’d come up with this. It was obviously going to be a disaster.

“Mae'n ddrwg gen i,” Eggs whispered, hidden in Rhiannon’s doorway.

“Mae'n ddrwg gen i,” Milo repeated, trying to keep the English cemented in his mind, the meanings. _I’m sorry._

If she was surprised she didn’t show it, merely raising an eyebrow.

“Dw i'n trïo dysgu Cymraeg.” _I am trying to learn Welsh._

“Oherwydd annigonol ydy un iaith a dweud y gwirrwy'n dy garu di!” _Because one language is never enough to tell the truth that I love you!_

As he spoke her face softened and for a brief beautiful moment she smiled, trying to hide it almost immediately.

“Os gweli di'n dda...” _Please..._

Milo took a step forwards, eyes fixed on Rhiannon, and heard a sudden scuffle in the doorway.

“Shit.”

“Eggs,” he hissed.

“Milo what’s going-” Rhiannon started to ask.

“Cnych,” Eggs said softly, his voice sounding worryingly lower down than it had before.

“Cnych.” Milo repeated with a terrible feeling that they had just strayed from the script.

“What?”

“Errr...” The sound was echoed back at him by Eggs. “Eggs say something. Anything.”

“Ummm... Ti’n bishyn?”

He paused, slightly panicked, but he had nothing else to say. “Ti’n bishyn!”

The eyebrows shot up sharply this time.

“Dw i wedi meddwi, ga’ i aros efo ti heno?” He repeated after Eggs desperately.

“Have you got any idea what you’re saying?” Rhiannon asked him.

“…Yes?”

She paused for a second in the window, taking in a deep breath through her nose.

“Dim diolch. Mae pen tost ‘da fi.” Rhiannon told him, slamming the window shut and drawing the curtains closed.

Eggs stepped forward into the light, wincing. “Sorry, I dropped the cards.”

“What just happened? What did she say, Eggs?”

“Errr... she said she had a headache.”

“Dammit,” Milo spun round, hands running over his face; as they dropped back to his side, his fist clenched and he felt his finger twitch. Eggs, watching him, took a step back. “What did I say, Eggs? After you dropped the cards, what did I say?”

“Maybe... maybe you should go back to the bakery; I’ll just stay and find the cards.”

 

# 3.

 

Milo found himself in the bakery again, fingers clenching, itching for a gun that was buried deep beyond his reach. He was eager for the feeling of control, of release, of losing yourself in a job. But he wasn’t a hitman anymore; he was a baker now.

He looked around the bakery at the flour and the eggs and the bowls and the spoons and all the tools of his new trade and, scarcely knowing what he was doing, he reached for them – perhaps he could lose himself here just as easily.

*****

Milo looked up with a start as Eggs pushed aside the bead curtain with a gentle cascade of clicking. It was as if the sound brought him to a single sudden moment of clarity – he must look like a mad man, covered in batter, jam in his hair, he’d even slightly singed his shirt on the oven. And everywhere, absolutely everywhere, were misshapen doughnuts.

He hadn’t even heard the key in the door. Or maybe he’d just not locked it last night.

Eggs stood in the doorway, mouth open, looking around the kitchen.

“Did something explode?” He asked, regaining himself as Milo tottered towards him on unsteady feet. “Are you alright?”

Milo sank to his knees in front of him, clarity and possibly sanity slipping away, he flung his arms around Eggs’ waist. “Why can’t I make doughnuts?”

“Doughnuts? They’re supposed to be doughnuts? Have you even been asleep tonight?”

He sank into the boy’s stomach, shaking his head against it. It was strangely comfortable, he could almost go to sleep. “How can Rhiannon love me, if I can’t make her the perfect doughnut?”

There was silence for a moment as Eggs patted him uncertainly on the head. “I could help you if you want.”

“You could?” He asked, staring up at him.

“I’m good with doughnuts,” Eggs grinned at him nervously.

*****

Milo ran his hand through his hair, it was still damp. Eggs had firmly sent him to bed, which was probably a good thing, given his breakdown.

When he’d woken, he’d showered and headed downstairs to find a candlelit table set up for two. It looked like it had been stolen from The Daffodil. There was also the remarkable news that Rhiannon was on her way; and a kitchen full of the most amazing doughnuts he had ever tasted.

There were jam doughnuts, ring doughnuts, doughnuts filled with custard or fruit, some with icing on top and others with fancy caramel patterns. They looked delicious.

“Milo?” Rhiannon asked, pushing the door of the bakery open and peering inside. “What’s going on?”

“Rhiannon, I’m so sorry about last night, it... I just, I was trying to impress you and I hadn’t had much sleep...”

“I know, Eggs told me.”

“Please sit down.”

She let him take her hand and lead her to the table, pulling the chair out like a proper gentleman. On the table in front of them was one of those impressive domed covers to keep food warm or hidden; Milo had no idea where Eggs had found it. As he hovered beside her for a second, he could see them both reflected in the shining metal. With a deep breath he stepped away, around to the other side of the table, so he could look at her.

“I want you to know that this is everything I want. You and Gwynfyd and the bakery and Eggs and The Daffodil and the Historical Recreation Society are everything I want. But I don’t know how to prove that to you.”

She hadn’t interrupted him, but her eyes were searching his face, looking for lies. She glanced down for a second with a sigh and then looked back up at him and smiled. It was a little forced but it was better than nothing.

“Alright, what’s under the cloche?”

He reached for it and then paused. “Is that a Welsh word?”

“No it’s French.”

“Oh, French,” he said and then reaching for the dome he lifted it with a flourish. “Voilà.”

Rhiannon stared at the pile of doughnuts in surprise for a moment. “Doughnuts. Did you make them?” She asked suspiciously.

Milo hesitated, but only for a second. “Yes, I wanted to do something for you. Properly. Doughnuts seemed right.”

“Oh, well, thank you.” Compared to his own, Rhiannon’s hesitation was obvious, after about 30 long seconds she reached gingerly for one of the doughnuts and, eyes closed in a slight grimace, she bit into it. She chewed and then her eyes opened in surprise, staring at Milo as she swallowed; as she finished she ran her tongue across her lips.

“Oh my god,” she told him, “This is really good.”

Milo moved back around the table, towards her, the only thought in his head that he wanted to kiss her. He was about to, when he stopped himself – perhaps it was still too soon; instead he grabbed another doughnut from the pile – he thought it was one of the caramel apple ring ones.

“Try this, it’s amazing.”

“So modest,” Rhiannon teased him. “I always knew you’d give me rings one day.”

“Do you want me to give you rings?” He asked quickly, not sure if he felt exhilarated or terrified.

“I don’t know, do you want to give me rings?”

It felt oddly like a fight – a battle – they both stared at each other, waiting to see who would flinch first. Not quite sure what he was doing, Milo took the doughnut back from her and was half down on one knee when Eggs burst through the curtain, wielding another tray of doughnuts. Milo had thought he’d already gone.

“Leek and cheese!” He declared. “I thought you could have it as a start...”

Rhiannon turned back to look at him slowly.  “Made them yourself, did you?”

“Rhiannon, I’m sorry.”

She pushed the chair back angrily as she stood up, pulling her coat back on.

“Sometimes, Milo, I wonder if you’ll ever stop lying.” Before he could say anything else, she was gone.

*****

Milo glared glumly at his empty glass as Rhys fetched new ones. They’d been exchanging horror stories - Rhys regaling him with the full glory of the re-enactment weekend. Bryn was still refusing to talk about it. Apparently it was frowned upon to rewrite history, even if it meant you did win the battle – or possibly _because_ it meant you won the battle. There was also something to do with ducks, though even Rhys wasn’t going to talk about that.

Rhys headed back towards them, carefully balancing the pints in front of him.

“I just can’t do doughnuts,” Milo told him miserably, “They’re like my holy grail of baking. And Eggs... Eggs...”

“The things he does with batter,” Rhys agreed sympathetically. “It’s like watching Michelangelo at work. People drive from all over the valley to taste it, otherwise I’d have fired him years ago.”

“It’s not just the batter,” Milo told him, watching as Bjorn walked through the door. “Cakes too.”

“And you should see the things he can do to a humble pickled egg, it’s practically obscene...” Rhys broke off, spotting Bjorn. His face blanched, almost pure white in seconds and he began to stutter.  “I was talking about Eggs... I mean, Eggs the boy, not Eggs the eggs.”

Bjorn stared at him for a bemused second and then, with a slight smile, turned back to the bar.

 

# 4.

 

 _Another day, another hangover_ Milo thought, cracking an eye open; he always forgot to close the curtains, and light was spilling in through the window. Spilling in around a shadowy figure stood before it – an oddly misshapen silhouette before the rising sun.

Milo started from his bed straight into a crouched position, hovering uncertainly defensive whilst his eyes adjusted to the light.

It was Eggs.

It was Eggs wearing the most ridiculous outfit he’d ever seen. It was black and heavily embroidered with slits and ruffles and Milo could only take it in one part at a time. There were stockings, topped with weird puffed out shorts that only reached half way down Eggs’ thighs; a loose white shirt was roughly tucked into them, with a jacket over the top and a ruff around the neck. And worst of all, much much worse, there was a codpiece – it had gems on it and he could only hope the size was an exaggeration. It was strangely difficult to take his eyes from.

“Do you know you’re holding a pillow?” Eggs asked him. He even had the gall to look concerned about it, as if Milo might be going mad.

Technically, Milo thought, he _was_ brandishing a pillow – threateningly. This was a skill very few people had. It was surprising what damage you could do with soft furnishings. He lowered it slowly.

“Eggs what are you... what... why are you in my room, Eggs?”

“I came to bring you your costume.”

“Costume?”

Eggs held up something deep blue and silky which seemed to have a cloak attached. “For the photo  shoot.”

“What photo shoot?”

There must have been something threatening in his voice that made Eggs hesitate before answering.

“Well... we’ve been open for a while now and I thought we should think about publicity, so I invited all the local press down to try the bakery and take photos and do a story about us.”

Milo was moving almost before the words had reached the thinking part of his brain, he grabbed Eggs by the ruff and ploughed him back into the wall, pinning him there.

“Did you say anything about me being a hitman?” He shook him. “Eggs!”

“No, no... nothing about that. Just about the bakery and the cakes and I thought we could show them the new doughnuts.”

Milo was silent for a second, trying to let the adrenaline calm down, still holding onto Eggs. “Why do we need costumes?” He asked at last.

“Because, well – Shakespeare’s Cakes... Shakespeare...”

“Right.”

“Do you think you could let go of me now? And maybe you could remove the pillow.”

“Right, yes, sorry.”

Milo took a step back and placed the pillow carefully back on his bed as Eggs smoothed himself down. It was probably lucky he’d been wearing a codpiece – sometimes instinct just took over.

“OK,” Eggs said cheerfully. “Well, you get changed and meet me in the bakery, they should be arriving soon.”

Milo just managed to suppress the groan until after he’d left the room.

*****

Milo came down the stairs self-consciously. He had never worn stockings in his life before and these ones were blue and clingy and, he suspected, entirely unflattering. Not to mention uncomfortable; plus his codpiece was definitely smaller than Eggs’.

There were already people milling about the bakery, looking at the displays that had miraculously turned up over night, and pausing by the small tasting tables.

It wasn’t difficult to spot Eggs amongst the somewhat scruffily dressed journalists, and he sidled over to him as inconspicuously as possible, given his outfit.

“Eggs, how many papers did you invite exactly?”

“Oh, just the local ones. The Valley Enquirer and the North Wales Chronicle and the Colwyn Bay Pioneer. Even the Western Mail have come.”

“Really?”

“Yes, though I think they’re mostly here about the sheep.”

“Right,” Milo said, the closest thing to panic he had felt for years settling in.

“Ah,” Eggs said, half a happy sigh, as something across the room caught his eye. Milo followed his gaze.

Rhiannon was stood in the doorway in an incredible dress – deep blue with silver showing through the slashes in its wide skirt and delicate flowers embroidered on the bodice. It matched what he was wearing and for a long drawn out moment he could only stare at her.

“I put something in your pocket, to help,” Eggs whispered in his ear.

“This thing has pockets?” Milo murmured but, instead of answering, Eggs shoved him in Rhiannon’s direction.

She laughed when she spotted him. “I didn’t think he’d manage to talk you into it.”

“I think the hangover weakened my defences,” he told her, enjoying the chance to pretend, at least for a second, that they hadn’t argued. “I’m sorry about last night and the window and the pub. I wanted to impress you, well not at the pub - that was a mistake. Most of it was a mistake, but-”

Rhiannon just watched him, letting him babble, face not betraying any emotion. She would have made a good assassin. As he talked his fingers found the pocket hidden inside a slash in his breeches – exploring inside they found something small and hard and cold.

 “Oh for gods’ sake, just kiss me you fool,” Rhiannon interrupted with a smile.

With a smile, he stepped forward, ready to take her face in his hands. Pulling his hand free from the pocket, forgetting that whatever he had found was still in his fingers until the moment it was between them – clear as day – a ring.

It was beautiful – silver, a dark blue stone surrounded by small diamonds. For a second neither of them moved. Milo felt as if time had slowed down and yet the world was rushing ahead of him, potential futures spreading outwards. The bakery and Eggs and the outfits and the press, all forgotten. It was like every thought possible was in his head and none at all because they were so jumbled and blurred.

But then one shining thought stood out – one piece of Welsh that he’d miraculously remembered, he dropped down onto one knee. Holding the ring before him like a shield.

"Wnei di fy mhriodi i?" _Will you marry me?_

Rhiannon placed a hand on each side of his face and leaning down kissed him.

“Yes.”

*****

It wasn’t until much later, after the photos had been taken and the press had departed and the villagers had descended, that Milo found time to seek out Eggs. Rhiannon had been surrounded by a gaggle of women, all talking very fast in Welsh. He still felt slightly dazed from everything that had happened and it was a relief to stumble out of the bakery into the daylight.

Bryn, Rhys and several others were milling about outside – most of them clutching doughnuts. He waved to a few of them. Eggs wasn’t difficult to spot; even though his outfit was black, it was hardly ninja-ish. Milo had half-forgotten the embarrassment of what he was wearing, or at least he had until he spotted Eggs talking to Bjorn.

Instinctively he ducked behind Bryn, hiding himself as best he could, though his eyes were still fixed on the conversation going on across the street.

As he watched, Bjorn pulled a wrapped package from inside his jacket and presented it to a confused looking Eggs. It had a bow on top. Eggs looked from the present at Bjorn, then back down again. Milo shifted slightly, trying to get close enough to hear what they were saying without being seen.

“Are you alright, Milo?” Bryn asked him.

“Errr...” Milo was in a weird crouched position and he wasn’t sure if there was any possible excuse for it. “Just having problems with my stockings.”

It was the sort of lie that you regretted as soon as you’d said it, but it was done now.

“Ah, the noble doublet and hose. _She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg, being cross-gart-_ “

“But they’re not yellow,” Rhys interrupted.

“I was quoting Twelfth Night...”

Milo glanced back across the street, Bjorn had vanished and Eggs was sat in a doorway surrounded by torn wrapping paper and staring at the contents of the box in rapt wonder.

“Sorry, need to...” Milo told them, gesturing at Eggs. As he approached, the boy shoved the box guiltily behind him.

“What was that all about?” Milo demanded.

“What?”

“Bjorn giving you presents.”

“Oh. Errr... I don’t know, he just said he wanted to apologise for the stuff in the castle,” Eggs was definitely lying or confused – sometimes it was difficult to tell the difference.

“He wanted to apologise? He wanted to apologise for you hitting him over the head with a shovel?”

“Errr... yes?”

Milo took in a deep breath; he hadn’t come here to interrogate Eggs, he’d come here to thank him. He squeezed down next to him on the step and, digging into his pocket, pulled out a battered carton of cigarettes. Eggs took one gratefully.

“About the ring-”

“Did you like it?” Eggs interrupted eagerly.

“Yes, I loved it but, Eggs, where did you get it?”

“It was my Mam’s, before she died.”

Milo hesitated for a moment, torn between surprise and pity and concern.

“Eggs, you shouldn’t have given it to me.”

“Why? I mean, I just thought if you and Rhiannon got married then you’d stay in Gwynfyd.”

“I would’ve stayed anyway, I like it here. But you shouldn’t give it to me if it was your mother’s.”

“Oh no, it’s fine. She hated it. It reminded her of Dad – she hated him too.”

Milo laughed despite himself.

“And you won’t want to give it to a girl one day?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Well, thank you.”

They sat in comfortable silence, enjoying their cigarettes for a moment. Two Shakespearian characters out of place in the world. Eggs was grinning.

“Well the papers seemed to like everything.”

*****

“I thought you’d want to see this,” Alf said, handing him a slightly crumpled newspaper page. It was from the Western Mail. Some rubbish about a bakery up north. He glanced over it briefly and then the picture caught his eye.

A man and a woman in fancy dress, arms wrapped around each other, smiling. A very noticeable ring shining on the woman’s hand.

He ran a finger across the picture, shaking his head in amusement.

“Oh, you just couldn’t resist, could you? Get the car.”

 

# 5.

 

Milo had been attacked in his bed plenty of times before – it had been something of an occupational hazard. He could only take it as a sign of how relaxed he was with Rhiannon, that this time he didn’t wake up until they were dragging him from under the covers.

He heard Rhiannon shriek as he began to struggle. Although it was dark in the room, he managed to sink a fist into something soft, probably a stomach judging by the accompanying grunt. He’d hit hard enough to bruise, but not in the right place to break a rib.

Somebody grabbed his arms, trying to pin them painfully behind his back, but he managed to shake them off enough to swing wildly. This time his fist didn't find anyone.

Across the room Rhiannon was swearing - a steady stream of profanities - and he could hear the sound of her own struggle. With a sudden sharp exhale of breath she fell silent.

He was still trying to place himself, heart pounding, trying to work out where he had been dragged to, needing to find the bed. His knee hit it as he finally lunged forwards and he began to scramble across the mattress - desperate to reach her. His feet caught in the bedclothes and someone grabbed his shoulder, yanking him painfully backwards and sending him tumbling to the floor.

Milo landed with a jolt and in seconds they were upon him, at least two men, holding him down. For a moment he saw one of his assailants - a shadow above him, arm raised, gripping something in his hand.

With a sharp pain everything went black.

*****

Milo came round to another pounding headache, although this one felt different, his whole body ached and he couldn't move his arms.

"Milo," he heard Rhiannon whisper, her fear evident, the attack came rushing back to him.

His eyes flew open but he had to close them almost immediately against the light. The second time he was more careful.

They were in the bakery, the windows still shuttered though daylight was creeping through the gaps, dusty and dim. He'd been tied to a chair, twine biting into his wrists and it felt like blood had dried down the left side of his face, making it hard to open that eye. Rhiannon was beside him - although thankfully she didn't look too hurt. Just scared.

This was all his fault.

“Are you alright?” Rhiannon asked him.

“I’m so sorry, Rhiannon. I should have known my past would catch up with me. I never wanted you to get hurt.”

He was already racking his brain, trying to work out who could be behind this – unfortunately it was a long list.

“Milo, there’s something I should tell you, it’s... you know how I said anyone who came to Gwynfyd must be running from something?”

They’d been sitting in the pub and he’d already been half in love.

“Yes.”

“It’s-“

Before Rhiannon could finish, the bead curtain was pushed aside and a man walked in. He was relatively short and slim, without much hair left, a small coiled spring of a man. Milo couldn’t place him, but he’d killed a lot of people and there wasn’t always time to get to know their friends and family. Three henchmen - Milo couldn’t think of a better word for them - followed him.

The man looked both of them over and smiled.

“Rhiannon, it’s been too long.”

“Go fuck yourself, Keith,” she spat at him, bristling.

It took a moment for Milo’s mind to catch up with what was happening. “What?”

The bakery was suddenly silent and then Keith laughed. “Hasn’t our Rhiannon told you what she used to get up to?”

“Milo...” She cut across him, then didn’t seem to know what to say. “Everyone has a few skeletons in their closet.”

“I thought that was just a figure of speech,” he said softly, wishing he could reach out and take her hand.

As he looked at her, wanting to let her know that it was alright, he caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye and froze – torn between trying to work out what it was and not giving any hint to Keith.

He spotted another movement, a flash of trainer disappearing under a table – Eggs’ trainer. God help them but it was the only hope they had, providing Eggs could just avoid being caught. Milo dragged his attention back to Rhiannon and Keith. He might not be able to help Eggs but he could at least not give him away.

“Rhiannon,” Keith told him, though his focus was entirely on Rhiannon, gripping her face in his hand so she couldn’t look away, “Used to work for me – nothing major – a bit of blackmail, plenty of lying to the police, I think she drove the get away car once. Until she got cold feet and all but handed us to the cops. I lost a lot of good men in that mess. And then she vanished. Bitch.”

He slapped her hard.

“You’re messing with the wrong people, Keith,” Milo told him, wanting nothing more than to grab his attention, “I’ve got dangerous friends.”

“Oh yes – a baker, the flour union will be on to me, I’m sure.”

“I’m not a baker, I’m.... I’m.... I’m The Baker.”

The henchmen laughed, just in time as Milo spotted Eggs hand just behind one of them, pushing a cake nearer. Now that he’d noticed it, he realised other cakes had appeared around the room. He had no idea what Eggs was doing, but he had a bad feeling about it.

As the laughter subsided, Keith moved closer to him.

“And what’s so special about ‘The Baker’?”

There was a slight noise, the lightest ting of metal against stone from where Milo had last seen Eggs, and the henchman closest turned sharply to look at it. He stared at the corner of the room for a second, though only half-heartedly, before his eyes settled on the cake before him.

“Well, Baker?”

“I’ve killed people Keith, and once...”

“Bad baking?”

“... And once I get loose from here I’ll hunt you down and before you even know I’m there, there’ll be a bullet between your eyes.”

Milo knew all his attention should have been focused upon Keith, but he couldn’t keep from half-watching the henchman as he reached out a finger and ran it through the cake’s icing.

“Who said,” Keith leaned close enough that he could feel his spittle on his face, “That you were going to get loose?”

The cake exploded.

It was almost, for a moment, like a cartoon. The henchman covered in icing, frozen in shock, but then he fell to the ground, cradling the stumps of his fingers and moaning in agony. The other henchmen looked, startled, stared at him briefly, and then almost as one turned to look at the cakes that had appeared behind them.

Keith was half turning himself when, seizing the moment, Milo head-butted him – hard. He’d forgotten the earlier injury, and pain sliced through his head, bright lights bursting behind his eyes, blinding him - but he could still hear the other cakes beginning to explode amidst yells of horror.

The soft patter of what he could only hope was icing and cake hit his face and his eyesight cleared just in time to see Eggs vaulting over the table with what was probably the Welsh equivalent of a war cry, brandishing something before him. He leapt onto a straightening Keith, clutching his forehead, and plunged whatever the item was into his side.

Keith convulsed for a moment and collapsed to the floor in a heap; in seconds Eggs had turned to the remaining henchmen and felled them just as swiftly, leaving the three of them in the wreckage of the bakery, with bodies scattered about them.

Eggs was grinning. “It’s a taser!”

“What... where the hell did you get a taser from?” Milo asked, relief flooding through him, despite the pain, as Eggs rushed to untie him.

“Oh... errr... it was a gift. From Bjorn.”

“Oh god, he’s giving you weapons.” Knowing Bjorn, that was probably an early stage in courtship. Milo had a horrible premonition that at some point in the near future he might have to have ‘The Talk’ with Eggs, or at least a talk.

As soon as he was free, Milo dropped to his knees in front of Rhiannon, fingers slipping across the sticky ropes. There was cake everywhere.

“Are you alright?”

She nodded, though there were still tears in her eyes from the slap and her cheek was red.

“Still want to marry me?” She asked. “Now you know all my secrets.”

He kissed her gently.

“I think, all things considered, it probably means we’re perfect for each other. Plus, if we ever get bored we can embark on a happily married life of crime.”

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for all the Welsh stereotypes, it's the films fault, honest. ;) Also, I fear the Welsh in this is mostly nonsense and certainly grammatically wrong, if anyone wants to send me corrections, they'd be gratefully received. Lastly, if this story had been told from Bjorn's point of view this might have been called 'The Strange Seduction of Eggs' (which is a much better title, damn) - I almost feel I should apologise for this. So sorry. But I hope you liked it.


End file.
